


The stars move still

by Vae



Series: After Life [2]
Category: Will (TV 2017)
Genre: Alice speaks with the dead, France (Country), Gen, Kit does not approve of Titus Andronicus, Post-Canon, being dead doesn't stop Kit from working for his country
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: Kit is dead and sent to France. A traitor may be forgiven if she can lead an agent of the Crown to bigger prey, but her loyalty is understandably divided.France seemed to suit her. London-pale skin had tanned under the strong French sun, and Alice moved with more purpose than he'd seen in her before, her hands impatient as she tucked strands of hair back behind her ears. Kit lengthened his stride to meet her, laying a casual arm across her shoulders. "My choice of tavern this time, I believe."
Series: After Life [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1613842
Kudos: 2





	The stars move still

The docks in French cities stank almost as badly as in London. Kit sidestepped a slipping crate of something that smelt like fish guts, carefully planning his path to completely accidentally knock against the small blonde woman watching goods being loaded onto one of the smaller ships. He stepped back, lifting his hat in a nearly sincere gesture of apology, one that held more mockery as he swept her a half-bow.

"Pardon, ma demoiselle." Kit stood up again in time to avoid another overladen dockhand, and to catch the look of shock on the woman's face. He smiled. "Ma demoiselle?"

Alice Burbage gave him a glare of rage strong enough to be impressive with her cheeks still so wan. "De rien."

Her French was still accented with the flat tones of Southwark, and Kit pushed away a pang of longing for home. "Please. Allow me to escort you."

Glare not fading, Alice lifted her chin. "Parlez vous Anglais?"

"Oh, come now." Kit gave her his most affable smile. She could betray him, it was true, but he'd wager it would take her time to find someone to whom to betray him. To report her location, Kit would only have to send a letter. "I don't believe there is a need for pretense between us, is there, Mistress Burbage?"

Alice's eyes widened, and she looked around her without subtlety. "I no longer use that name, Master Marlowe."

"And I no longer use that one," Kit returned, offering his arm. He'd already checked for anyone who might overhear, and was confident enough in the noise of the docks to mask anything that might be indiscreet. "A drink, ma demoiselle? Or a meal?"

Alice cast one more glance towards the ship and brushed her skirts down with both hands. "One, drink, monsieur, and then I must return. I will be missed."

"No doubt," Kit agreed, crooking his arm in her direction again and laughing in delight when she ignored it, marching ahead of him away from the docks. The name of the ship she'd been watching was firmly lodged in his memory, and he could discover her destination after he'd made sure of Alice Burbage.

France seemed to suit her. London-pale skin had tanned under the strong French sun, and Alice moved with more purpose than he'd seen in her before, her hands impatient as she tucked strands of hair back behind her ears. Kit lengthened his stride to meet her, laying a casual arm across her shoulders. "My choice of tavern this time, I believe."

Alice's shoulders stiffened and her jaw tightened before she gave a small nod. "I am expected back in an hour."

"And I hope you will accept my escort there as well," Kit said, all consideration and courtesy. 

"Hope is free," Alice said tartly, turning to follow his guidance around a street corner. "Even when it is foolish."

"And where is the joy in wisdom?" With a wide smile, Kit pushed a door open, his hand flat against the wood as she ducked into the dim room.

The inn was not exactly a tavern, but it was where Kit had his rooms, and several of his local connections. After this, he would need to move lodgings, but it was worth the trouble of that to be sure of the place he was taking a woman who was, technically, a traitor and an escaped prisoner from the country that held his loyalty.

Kit followed Alice inside and closed the door, nodding caution to the inn servant. "What should I call you?"

"What should I call you?" Alice retorted, tucking her skirts under her as she sat down. Not tamed, but more controlled than he remembered. Torture could do that to a person.

"Christophe Marcade, at your service." Kit grinned at her snort of disgust. "Or not. But that is the name that I am known by, here."

"Alison Berger," Alice said, bowing her head for a moment in an odd, maybe mocking indication of ceremony. "And what brings you to France, Monsieur Marcade?"

"Searching for old acquaintances." Kit leaned back slightly as the inn servant set a jug of wine and two cups on the table between them. "You knew the falconer."

Alice went still, her hands hidden under the table, and Kit let his own left hand drop down to his hip for the reassurance of the dagger that was concealed there. "The falconer?"

"Monsieur Cotton." Kit watched Alice's face, intent, looking for any flicker of movement that would tell him that she was going to be foolish enough to threaten him. "The man who threw out his lures and caught his pretty birds."

"Falcons do not always fly to the lure." Slowly, Alice reached for one of the cups with her left hand. 

Kit lifted the jug with his right, filling both her cup and his own, then put the jug down, lifted his cup and drank. Safe, untainted wine, if a little over strong. "And falconers sell their birds when they can profit from the sale."

Alice's knuckles went white. "Not all of them."

"The one I mean does," Kit said flatly. "And forgets that all falcons are still wild birds, and without a reason to return to the lure, they can still fly free."

"Freedom means freedom to _choose_." Alice took a hasty sip of her wine, one red drop staining her lower lip as she lowered her cup. 

"When the choice is a free one, aye." Kit sat back slightly, cautious of how far he could push before this particular falcon chose to fly from him. "What happens when he chooses to sell you again, Mademoiselle Berger? And he will, when it suits his purpose."

"He did not choose to sell last time," Alice said, her voice tight and low. 

Kit shook his head, eyes steady on hers. "You forget, I was there when he did. And it was a choice, one that he made with intent, just as his choice and intent was to leave you."

"It was God's choice," Alice insisted, drawing her wine cup closer.

Kit raised an eyebrow. "Was it? God did not save you, Shakespeare did."

Alice flushed and looked away, up towards the roof. "God acted through him."

"God did not act through me." Kit shrugged, refilling his cup and taking a long swallow. The woman was just as stubborn as before, though not as stubborn as he was. "I can promise you that the message I delivered to Master Shakespeare came entirely of my own self interest."

Mirroring him, as he'd intended, Alice drank from her own cup. "And what _interest_ did you have in this lowly falcon?"

Duly chided, Kit chuckled. "Only that you inspire William's writing, and the world needs his writing. _I_ need his writing."

Alice shook her head, lips pressed together. "You are no actor, no owner of a theatre. You are his rival -"

"And did I not deserve challenge in my rivals?" Kit stretched his legs under the table, crossing his ankles. "Kyd was no challenge. Nashe could never spur me to rise beyond mine own talents."

"And yet he can?" Putting her cup down precisely, Alice pushed it from her, leaving it next to the jug.

"With you as muse," Kit agreed. "He could."

Alice's eyes sharpened. "No longer?"

Kit rolled his eyes. "Have you _read_ his latest? No, you cannot, or you would not ask. Peele has been a bad influence upon him. You may read my copy. I no longer require challenge, however, my next work is to be my last. My posthumous last, by all accounts."

"But..." Brow creasing in confusion, Alice gestured towards him. "You don't seem to be sick."

"Indeed, the news is slow here." Kit smiled, reaching across the table to capture her hand. "You speak with the dead, lady. The man you believe me to be died in Deptford, and all that remains is his shade."

Alice tugged at her hand, which he refused to release. "You do not speak like a corpse."

"I speak like one, but I do not drink like one." Kit squeezed her hand, enjoying her attempts to free herself, finally relenting when she brought her other hand around to grasp his wrist. "I do many things unlike a dead man. Do you, too, speak with the dead?"

"That would be witchcraft," Alice said sharply, rubbing at her fingers. "And now, Monsieur _Marcade_ , I would like to go, before I am looked for."

"Oh, you are already looked for." Kit dug into his pouch, tossing coins on the table to cover the cost of the wine. "But you may leave this place. I _will_ find you again."

Alice stood, swinging skirted legs free of the bench. "Throw out all the lures you wish, master falconer. I will not take your bait."

Kit laughed, letting her go, watching the sway of her skirt disappear around the door. Bait, no, but a hooded falcon would not see a trap until after her jesses were safely caught.


End file.
